He Who I Used to Be
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: She is looking into my eyes like she might find the man she loves there. I wished her luck. (Charlie/Rose, side Blake/Jean)


_/So this beast of a fic is finally done. Warnings for a car accidents and light death mentions here and there. I don't much like writing in the first person but it was the only way I could get this fic to move forward. It feels a little dull at times but oh well. I really liked wiring for Rose again lol. Enjoy, and leave a review if you liked It :-)_

...

'This is a notebook I will be keeping about my life.

My name is Charlie Davis (Confirmed by fingerprints) and I am suffering from amnesia. From what I understand roughly six months ago, I was involved in an on the job accident that left me retrograde amnesia, that is, I cannot remember my past. Most of my general knowledge is in tact, I could dust for finger prints, and I can tell you who is running my country, but I could not tell you the first thing about any event that I took part in past about age six.

According to the doctor, if I write things down then it might help me recover some of my memories.

Lucien Blake – The only person who I trust. He does not withold information from me and answers most of my questions. He suffers from an unfaltering positivity. He seems very convinced that everything will turn out okay. I have been told that we were quite close, he also seems sad when he thinks I don't know.

Jean Blake – The Doctor's wife. She is a good cook, but avoids me. She seems sad when we talk. I wonder often what our relationship was. She won't tell me much, but she cried once while making a roast.

Rose Anderson – An enigma. We were apparently arranged to be married before The Accident. She doesn't come over, but I feel a bizarre rush of emotions when I look at her pictures. I do not possess any references but I can extrapolate that it is love.

Matthew Lawson: I would call him my babysitter. He's fine, I suppose. I have no strong feelings either way about him. He never seems sad, just vaguely annoyed by me. I like that feeling, compared to the sadness.

…

Blake is drunk. Mrs Blake is out.

"You know, Charlie, I always wanted a son." He said, as I took the bottle away from him.

"Really Doctor?"

"Mmm…Someone to carry on the family business. My grandfather was a doctor."

"Was he? "  
"His name was...Radcliffe." I take the empty glass out of his hand.

"I think that is quite enough of that." Taking him by the hands, I tug him up onto his feet. I throw a glance over at the bottle, and wonder if I drank much prior to The Accident (that is what we call it now). I'm not allowed to drink now because of the anti seizure medicine I'm on. Letting him put most of his weight on me, we traveled the short distance to his bedroom, where I deposit him onto his bed. He sighs, and lets me take off his shoes and socks before he begins to talk again.  
"You shouldn't be looking after me, I should be looking after you." There is nothing left of the me he is talking about left but I let him think as he pleases. No point talking to him drunk, Mrs Blake has said, and I believe her.

"You've looked after me quite enough." I reply, tugging his jumper off over his head.

"But you're still not better...What kind of doctor am I?"

"I pulled through, didn't I?"

"Not how you used to be." I am not good at comforting people. Leaning forward, I helped him undo the buttons on the front of his shirt, so he's in just his singlet. He is right, but I was not in the mood to talk about that tonight.

"Bed now. Mrs Blake will be upset if I left you there to pass out drunk." Mentioning his wife seems to do it. Usually does. Ensuring he is actually in bed, I spent a moment just watching him, sad I make him sad enough to get drunk.

Sadder still I'm not strong enough to ever leave the only safe place in the world.

…

 _If you're wondering, about a month later, I looked up the accident the day before Charlie's. I wondered if the wife of the dead man felt like I did, or if it's different when the body dies too. I sent flowers, but I never got a reply. Later, much, much later, I realised how cruel of me that was, opening the death wound like that._

 _I sent them and went back to the hospital, watching him with Blake, the rock of hard envy sitting like a stone in my stomach. He looks at me, and I look back at him, trying to convey to him that he should be with me right now. Jean leads me away, assuring me that it was only temporary._

 _I told her I didn't care, he was my husband. She told me I didn't have a choice._

...

This house is my only safe space. I say that because I know everything about it. I know the floor plan, the lay out, the creaking floorboards, I know the furniture, the people, the cooking things, I know this house.

As you might expect, I don't tend to leave the house that often. When I do, I have to have someone with me, just in case, I presume. Perhaps before, this might have upset me, being kept on a chain, but now I wonder if the chain is a good thing? Perhaps it is, now.

When they think that I am not listening, I have heard Blake and Mrs Blake talk about me. They say how I used to be so strong and brave and now I cannot even stand to leave the house by myself. I think it's funny, actually, the way that things have turned out. Personally, of course. They wouldn't hesitate to section me if I told them to their faces.

I was finishing up washing dishes when Mrs Blake came home, in a cloud of her usual perfume. "Charlie." She greeted me. I nodded hello and drape a towel over the clean plates. She looks pained for a moment when I turn around. Not that I blame her. I wear the same face when I look in the mirror and see what is left of my right eye. I do not often wear a patch around the house when she is not home. I reach up and cover the offensive eye with a hand. She gives a slight smile, and lets me pass with no further comment. I wander off to my room.

I slowly pulled on pajamas, and put my alcohol smelling clothes in a basket by the door to be washed. I closed the door, and took out a photo from the bedside table, taking it to my bed to study it. Rose Anderson.

She is so beautiful. I think that I must have had good taste to fall in love with her. I've met her twice before, in the now, the post accident. Both times, she didn't want to talk to me, I suppose I was hurt but all things considered, I am not sure if I am. She is still gone. And my brain still wants to be in love with her.

I took this photograph from Blake's room when he was drunk. He didn't want me to have it because he is over protective and thinks I will break down if I am faced with something other then what I have become accustom too. He is wrong, but I rarely bother with correcting him about such things. I suppose I'm afraid of shaking the boat, of Blake taking a page from seemingly everyone elses book and getting rid of me. I don't know what I would do, without him. I suppose it wouldn't be good.

Sliding Rose away under my pillow, I lay down under the blankets, turning off my lamp with one hand. I didn't sleep.

…

Eventually, when I deem the sun high enough in the sky, I headed downstairs, or I was going to, when I heard arguing.

"You treat him like a child, tell him what he is and isn't allowed to do!"

"I'm doing what's best for him!"

One is Blake, I know that for sure, the other is Rose, because it's not Mrs Blake and I doubt that there are any other hims around. I know I shouldn't eaves drop, but I'm the one they're talking about so I feel compelled to listen in.

"What's best for him? He hasn't left the house in weeks, and when he does, it's with a chaperone. You won't even let me talk to him on the phone!"

"I am his doctor you have n- "

"He is my husband!"

That's news to me. I'd always assumed that she'd broken it off with me, not that she was forced too.

"Why are you here, Rose?"

"I want to see the man that I love, is that so much to ask?"

"He's not that man anymore."

"Matthew is allowed to see him!"

"Matthew wasn't in a relationship with him."

"Why don't you ask me?"I asked, emerging from the shadows, and looked at both of them expectantly. Blake is glaring at Rose. I know he means well but there are still somethings I want to do for myself.

"Charlie. Good morning." Blake.

"I told you that you'd wake him." Mrs Blake.

Nothing from Rose. Blake and Rose are looking at me like I'm an alien from outerspace. I look at Blake.

"Are you going to offer Mrs Davis a cup of tea?" Maybe that was mean of me, I certainly don't want to burn any bridges with Blake but if I'm married...Rose smiled at me gratefully. She looks sad still, but it's not dominant on her face. I chose to sit next to her and it feels natural. It feels like something I would do. The me I used to be, that is. Blake serves her a cup of tea with milk and sugar. He gave me milk. Rose glares at the milk as if it has offended her.

"I don't like tea." I inform her, crossing my feet at the ankle under the table. Her face becomes less offended and more horrified. Apparently, I liked tea before. It's never even crossed my mind that I might have liked it before. Now it just tastes like watery dirt. As if it were the most normal thing in the world, her hand seeks out mine, and laces our fingers together. I wonder if we did this often. It feels right, it feels so totally right. I don't know why Blake is frowning. Mrs Blake, for what it may be worth seems unimpressed with him. With life in general. She is still in her pajamas. Unusual for her.

We sit in quiet for a moment, Rose taking the occasional sip of tea.

"Mrs Davis," I began again, "What brings you over?"

"I wanted to take you out for the day, I came to ask you, but your keeper here disagrees." Keeper?

"It's just that I think you're not ready yet." Blake said, face creased in a tired frown. He looks hung over. Probably had a headache. (Good, a cruel little part of my mind whispered)

"Well what did you have in mind?"

"A picnic lunch, a trip to the pictures in the afternoon, dinner at my place." She's come prepared then. I'm not surprised, even though I feel like I should be.

"That doesn't sound bad." I look to Blake, raising my eyebrows. "What do you think?" He gave Rose a slightly smug look.

"I don't think you should go to the pictures." I glanced at Rose, wondering if she will compromise.

"It doesn't matter what he thinks it's your life, Charlie. Don't think that you have to spend it with me if you don't want to. "

"I do want to, but, since I am in fact a patient, I think it's a good idea to get his opinion." This is tiring. I am tired. "I propose that we do lunch at the park, and then spend the day at your place." Rose gives me a look I may have seen before, and then nods.  
"Alright then, that sounds like a plan." I smile. She smiles back. Blake looks stormy. "I will take all of my pills with me Doctor, I will be fine." This does little to reassure him. "I will be with someone I trust, and I will be back before nine." This was once how I bargained a date with a girl I liked in highschool. Her name was Rachel. A memory? I file it away to be revisited later. Perhaps just something I dreamed of. It can be hard to tell.

Blake gives his approval to me via nod. I let out a breath I hadn't even been aware I was holding. I had no idea why I was so nervous. It was no different to any other day, any other meeting. At this point, I thought I was dealing with everything rather well. Finding out I had a wife and the Rose I had been pining over was actually interested in me. I wondered if the day had anything else in store for me. (It did)

…

I don't get out much any more. I mean that shouldn't be surprising, since if my lack of friends is anything to go by I apparently didn't have many friends before either. But the park is beautiful. Birds sing overhead, people are walking past us, the sun is shining and the grass is growing. Unlike myself, Rose seems to have been put into a bad mood.

"Can I talk to you about the doctor?" She glances at me, pulled from her thoughts and nods.

"Sure."  
"He's not doing anything I haven't okay-ed you know that don't you?"  
"Pardon?"

"He's not treating me in a way I haven't said he could."  
"You approve of all this?" It feels like I know her so well and the chasm of missing things in my chest grows irreversibly wider.

"Well, he didn't tell me about being married to you, and I know that was wrong, but, he was acting with my best interests in mind." Rose was still unconvinced. I sighed and looked up at the sky, focusing in on a large white cloud. It looks like a dog, to me. I am beginning to regret this, I don't know how to talk to her, what to say, I feel like I should apologise but for what?

"The chaperoning?" I am not sure I really want to speak about this with someone, who, to me, is an almost total stranger but I relented.

"Like a lot of people who've suffered traumatic brain injuries, I have had seizures. I feel better knowing that I have someone with me." She looks confused, then sad, then reaches out and takes my hand. She doesn't say anything. I don't ask her too. I'm not sure that I've really done much to help her, but I hope I have. We're both looking at the dog cloud now, both unsure of what we should do to make the other more comfortable. From all accounts I have been a pretty poor conversationalist, both pre and post 'The Accident' so I wonder if this was mostly her job. She seems to be thinking the same thing. Eventually I broke the silence.

"Were we married long?"

"A year. We courted for a year, were engaged for two, then we married." Four years then.

"Why so long?"

"At first, because I didn't want to risk my job by getting married, or worse, in case you decided that you wanted me to be your housewife who made you home cooked meals and washed your clothes." I frowned slightly.

"Why would I do that?"  
"Because you loved rules and you loved adhering to them, and why would marriage be any different?"

"Oh."

"We spoke, one night, and you made some sort of reference to Taming of the Shrew, and I suppose I knew in that moment everything I would ever need to know to justify getting married." Pause. "It's funny how it took you so long to convince me to marry you, and now here we are. You can't remember." We were still looking at the dog shaped cloud as it drifts off, leaving us here. Perhaps it is right to leave. We are a sinking ship, travelling steadily downwards. But I'd rather live terrified then die bored.

…

The house is small and neat. A one bedroom townhouse with a study, if I am guessing right. She set her picnic basket down by the door, and then closed it behind her, sealing us in, essentially. Again, for the second time in as many minutes, I think that she's beautiful. She smiles at me. I give half a smile back. We walk to the living room, and sit, me, because I can't stand, her because I'm sitting.

In the house, I'm struck by a feeling of familiarity, something aching my chest. I don't know why. A part of me isn't sure that it wants to know why. Rose is seemingly at a loss for words.

"I was starting to think that I'd never see you here again."

"This was...Our house?" She nodded. "For how long?"  
"We lived here for two years."

"That long?" She nodded.

"Yes. You said it...Felt like home." I feel like I'm watching the world through coloured glass. My chest is filled with stones.

"I'm sorry, I'm just...It's all a lot to take in." I apologised, slowly wiping a hand over my face. "And you've been alright, with expenses?" She laughs, softly. I'm confused.

"What?"  
"So bloody typical of you, you know? You find out you have a wife and a house and the first thing you do is ask if I'm okay." I'm not sure how to respond to that. She leans down, taking both our hands and wrapping her fingers between mine like a vine on a tree. She is wearing a simple gold band with a single white gemstone. A diamond. She must notice me looking at it because she says  
"I have yours as well." I gave something a smile, I think, and she reaches with her other hand under her shirt, producing a gold band on a silver chain. She undoes the clasp at the back and puts it into my left hand. On the inside, there is an inscription in floral writing. It is worn, as if I have taken the ring off a hundred times. It reads '' I won't die bored. 1965 " I suppose that is the year that we married. I wonder why I chose that quote in particular. Rose, as per usual is an enigma and offers me nothing to uncode it with.

"Did I take it off often?"  
"You fiddled with it when you were thinking." She replied, giving me a smile. I slide it onto the appropriate finger and it feels good. It looks right. She looks at me again.

I take this moment to examine her face, looking for clues to who I am in the peak of her nose and the curve of her lip. She's pale, almost as pale as I am, her face is mysteriously free of moles and freckles, medium sized blue eyes, the shape of them like a penny squished by a train. Her nose is small, sweet looking. Chin that gives her face a heart shaped look. She looks like I know her. I feel like I should know her. But yet here I am.

I reach out with one hand to touch her face, and she lets me. I carefully ran my thumb over her cheek. She is looking into my eyes like she might find the man she loves there. I wished her luck.

…

 _I have to return to work and leave him here. I don't want to. I don't want to. I don't want to. But I can't stay here with him. It kills me inside. I wonder: does he know? Does he know that he can't die, he can't leave me here alone? Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn't._

 _The doctors tell you to try talking to him, because he might be able to hear you but you feel stupid doing it. The same way I would feel stupid talking a gravestone. He's not there. He doesn't know. \_

" _Rose." Blake._

" _Rose." Mrs Blake._

 _I am not talking to Blake. I might never speak to him again. I turn to address Mrs Blake. His face is covered in road rash, there are six stitches in his jaw and he's wearing his sling. For once. The eye that avoided the road rash is swollen. He looks the way that I feel. "You should go home." She said, taking my hand in one of hers. Her nail polish is chipped along the top from where she has been worrying it._

 _You know she offered to do my nails once. I think she was thinking about Charlie's mother, and how she hated me. How she thought I was missing out. Perhaps it's the relationship she misses having with Ruby. Perhaps she wants a relationship with Charlie to mirror the one she could have had with Jack. Neither of us have ever minded. We love her like she might actually be our mother._

" _What is he wakes up?" I asked, looking at her, aware that there was a tear making it's way down my face._

" _I will be here." She replies. "I will tell him where you are."_

 _I think it's funny that it didn't turn out like that. She couldn't have been more wrong._

…

I was floating on air when she returns me to Blake that evening. It's nine o'clock, we're early, but she wants to make a good impression. I love her. I love her. I love her. It's a mantra in my mind, over and over. We spent the afternoon talking, she filled me in on our lives together.

We were considering children, but never come to an agreement because we both wanted them, but nether of us wanted to give up the work. We loved arguing with one another, but it was never malicious. I called them Blake and Jean rather then Doctor and Mrs Blake, and they both approved of our relationship (not that we needed it back then.) Lawson was her uncle and loved me like his own nephew. I felt a deep, bone deep, sadness inside of me about the life I have taken from him, the me I used to be, from someone who deserved it.

We were sitting in the car outside Blake's house, I'm still wearing the ring and Rose seems on edge. I have to ask.

"Do you still love me? I won't be upset if you don't or...Want a divorce I won't contest." She turns to me, horrified I would even suggest that. "I'm not stupid, you know. I'm not what I was, not who I was, I get that." She is looking at me again, a look I feel like I should know but don't. She is tearing up.

"Shit, Rose shit I'm sorry."

"Stop fucking apologising."She said, said, after a moment, "I love you." She said, like it weighed a million tonnes. "I loved you then and I will keep loving you for as long as I can" She whispered, hands taking the steering wheel hostage. "I promised you, in the hospital that I wasn't going to leave and I don't break promises."She says, blinking away fresh angry tears. I don't try and stop her. Blake is on the poach, waiting for me. My chest is filled with helium and flower petals.

"Thank you." I sad, it's lame but it's all that can come to mind. And then "I love you, too." She gives me that smiles again. "See you around?"  
"Bet on it." She replied, as I got out of the car. I wish I had kissed her that afternoon, but I hadn't wanted to make it harder on her then it had to be.

I make my way to Blake, who is, for once, not drunk. He is assessing me, looking, I presume, for signs something may have happened.

"I'm fine." I assure him, grinning madly. His face is still stormy, but I think it has less to do with me and more to do with something on his own homefront. With Mrs Blake. "Why do you look like someone just kicked your dog?"  
"Just..."

"Trouble with Mrs Blake?"  
"You can call her Jean, you know. She won't mind." He is changing the subject.  
"Doctor..."

"Leave it, Charlie."

And I did.

...

 _My uncle arrives after everyone else, he'd been in Melbourne, but I can't remember why. He is shutting the door behind him and standing a few feet away, watching, waiting. No one wants to fill him in on the situation. Fair enough._

 _Blake stands, taking this, and leading him outside, leaving me alone with Mrs Blake. Neither of us want to stop our silent praying to talk about Charlie. His ring is sitting on the table next to a glass of water and I want to put it back where it belongs. And yet I still can't move, just sit here, and wait._

 _Breathe. Please breathe, I will him, tightening my hands on my knees. I can hear an ambulance pulling in across the building, siren still blaring as someone else gets a second chance. I wonder if Charlie will get his second chance as well._

…

Mrs Blake was sitting in her perfume cloud, drinking sherry.  
"Charlie!" She said, as if I don't know my own name and invites me to sit with a pat of the chair next to her. I try to avoid it when I can because her perfume gives me a headache but for now I agree. She swallows the last of her drink in a large gulp.

"Mrs Blake."

"You didn't call me that, before."

"What did I call you?"  
"Just Jean."

"Jean?" Long pause. She nodded.

"I like that." She decides. I am not sure how to continue this, so I let it drop. She smiles at me. I give her a half smile back. "We used to cook together, you and I."

"Did we?"  
"All sorts of things, and then when you moved out, you would bring me things you cooked to try. I always thought that was kind of you." She said, "You don't cook any more."  
"Blake won't let me."  
"He means well." She said, and I nod. She's preaching to the converted really. "I'll work on him, maybe we can make potatoes again." I want to mention that I don't know how to make potatoes but I fear it would be detrimental to this conversation. "I can show you, how to make all the things we used to make." She smiles, "He will take one look at something you made and everything will be like it was." It can't ever be like it was, but again, detrimental to the conversation. I'm sure this sounds good to her, in her drunken state, but to me, here in the real world, sober and lucid, it somehow doesn't seem like something that is going to happen to us any time soon. But I'm experienced when it comes to dealing with the drunk and delusional by now so I smile. And I take her into the bedroom, leaving before she can try and speak to me about it any more. I pass Blake in the hall. He looks as stormy as he always is.

…

 _Breathe._

 _Breathe._

 _Breathe._

 _In between Charlie's breaths, I have taken to encouraging him to take the next one. I don't know that God is listening, but I hope that he is responding to my pleas to let him live. We are all here, looking in on him. Mrs Blake is hovering by a window, one hand with perfectly lacquered red nails covering her perfectly lipstick coated lips._

 _Blake is sitting next to me, resting his face on his clasped hands, unable to look up or at him directly. It is a change from before, when he couldn't stop talking. Now he can't even muster up the energy to speak to us. The three of us, his closest friends, his family, all sitting in this little room, trying to will him to live._

 _Breathe._

 _He shudders through another breath. I am holding his ring in my left hand, it's far too big for any of my fingers, but I'm still holding on to it as tightly as I can. He plays with it, when he worries, twists it around on his finger in circles. I always found all of his strange quirks like that charming. It occurs to me, that I might never see him do that again._

 _There was a nuerosurgeon here before, but I can't remember what he said. He was telling us about what might happen, now. I am reaching for him, taking one of his hands between both of mine, as if it might help. Usually, his fingers slot themselves between mine, sliding into place, right where they belong. But his hands are still, like a doll, perhaps._

 _It is raining. Thousands of drops of water pounding forever downwards, traveling to their final destination. The window halts them, and they throw themselves at it, as if they could break through and continue their path. The grey light casts shadows on Jean's face, the shadows from the water droplets almost disguise that she is crying. I am not so lucky._

…

I am starting to see where Rose was coming from with the over protection opinion. It has taken Jean six days to convince Blake to let me help in the kitchen. Tonight, we are making what she describes as simple. Roast chicken with three veg. Somewhere in the back of my brain a tiny memory tries to pull itself free.

I ignored it and hoping it will either come free or go away.

She set me to work washing and peeling potatoes. Which is fine, I know how to do that. Or more accurately she has shown me again. My hands know what to do, but my brain is not going to keep up. Like shaving, for the first time.

I felt like I knew what to do, how to move, even with Blake standing by my shoulder, explaining it all to me, and guiding my hand. I watched my hand, on my face, clearing away hair and cream, wondering, how out of all the things I could have recalled, it was shaving. Blake assured me it was just muscle memory. I wasn't sure I believed him.

Spices are lined up in front of me, as if they might trigger some of those memories that Blake has assured me will come someday. I will remember, I will be who I was, and this time I certainty don't believe him. With the last potato peeled, and dropped into cold water, I turn my attention to the seasoning.

I slowly drain them, and then, out of nowhere, perhaps out of memory or a stroke of brilliance, I began coating them in seasoning, salt, peper, some herbs, oil, and coat them (as well as my hands) in it. Jean looked up, watching me cook with raised eyebrows. I put the dish into the oven, and lean back, not sure where to wipe my hands, or where to clean them. Jean passes me a cloth.

I go upstairs, shellshocked, and locate my notepad.

…

Blake has also told me that I should write down things I can remember, in the hopes of triggering more memories. Recently, I have recalled

I once dated a girl named Rachel and had to bargin the date from her father

how to make the potatoes they like

I have also discovered that several of my previous impressions of people have been incorrect.

Blake has not been telling me the truth, in fact, he has lied to me about several things

Rose and I are actually married. Blake told her to stay away rather then her making a choice too.

This is exhausting. I am going to see Lawson tomorrow. Perhaps he can give me some advice on the situation.

…

Matthew Lawson, from what I understand is the human version of apathy. He was supposed to be tasked with making sure I was alright during the daytime when Blake was working, but really, he could do whatever he liked because Lawson just didn't care. It was, at times, refreshing. Other times, frustrating.

He was sitting in the main room when I made my way downstairs. Three nights on minimal sleep now. I don't think I used to have problems sleeping. Must be another thing that's come on 'post accident'. I haven't told Blake yet because I don't want to be on more fuckin' pills. I fear that if this goes o for much longer then I may not have much say in the matter.

"You look terrible." Matthew Lawson: Observer extraordinaire.

"Thank you." Sitting heavily next to him, I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hands.

"Did you get _any_ sleep?"

"No."

"Are you going to tell Blake?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"He won't tell the truth to me, why should I tell the truth to him?" I am fully aware that I sound like a petulant child and probably damaging my health.

"It's your funeral." Thank you, Matthew, I think, tilting my head over the back of the couch as much as I can. We sit in silence for another few moments. It's always like this with him.

"I didn't know you were my uncle in law." This gets the reaction I was hoping for. His head snaps towards me. His mask is broken, he looks a bit like I just shot him in the chest.

"I didn't tell you."

"Rose did."

"You've spoken to Rose?"  
"I spent the day with her last week." Pause, let him stew on this, "Fought Blake for every moment."

"Did you remember anything?"

"I remember I once dated a girl called Rachel."  
"I bet Rose was pleased with that."

"I...I didn't tell her."

"Did you tell Blake?"  
"No." Another pause. "I remembered how to make potatoes that he likes."

"Was he pleased."

"I suppose." Lawson is looking at me again, with those grey eyes, trying to suss me out. I don't know what he thinks of me now. I wonder why he used to think of me.

"Did...Were...Were we close?" I asked, finally. He looks contemplative.

"We were. We were good friends. I was your boss for a few years."

"I knew that."  
"I..." He trails off, unsure where to go. Which is good. Because neither did I. "You and Rose used to come around once a week for dinner." He said, finally. "Out of everyone, you were the only ones I saw regularly after the accident." He also had an accident? I presume it had something to do with his cane. He is looking at the decorative knob on the top with sad eyes and I can't stand it.

"Was I...Alright?"  
"You were. I was...I was glad that it was you and Rose."

"Really?"  
"Really."

"Why?"

"Because I always worried that she might end up with someone who saw her as a challenge, something to tame. Someone who loved her despite her nature." A very, very long pause. "But you loved her because of it." I can't imagine a lifetime where I'm not hopelessly in love with Rose Anderson. But apparently there was a time where I was. I can't even begin to imagine what it would feel like to have that piece of myself gone. Lawson produces a wallet from his pants and shows me a photograph with a brown stain on the left corner.

Upon examination, it's revealed to be myself and Rose in our wedding photo. She is wearing an ankle length dress, with sleeves only reaching her elbows, the edges scalloped neatly. She has pinned her hair back under a veil that only travels down her back, but left the fringe out. I am standing to her left, suit and all, grinning like I can't ever remember grinning before.

"This was yours. You used to carry it everywhere, for luck."  
"The stain?"  
"Blood." I frowned.

"You had it on you when..." He glances at my eye. I look down.  
"Yeah." silence is once again the king of the house. I feel this a lot, and wonder, if this is how it always was. He puts a hand on my arm. I am not sure what it means.

…

 _It's odd but the last time I saw him before the accident was the morning, when he left for work. Both of us were still in bed, and he was awake, watching me sleep. I know he does it all the time when he can't. Finds it comforting. He's lucky I don't find it creepy, really. Someone told me once, in the wake of some other tragedy, that looking back your memories will be clearer of just before the event and you know what? They were right._

 _I remember every detail. I remember the feel of the bedseets against my legs, warm where he'd been sleeping. I remember the noises of him combing his hair at our shared mirror. I remember putting on his dressing gown and following him into the kitchen while he made tea for two. It was a routine. I would see him off to work. I didn't have to be in for two hours after he did._

 _Sitting at the table, he would make fun of my hair curlers, I would make fun of his slicked back hair waves. He'd tell me that I took my tea too strong, I'd insult him for using too much milk. He would kiss my forehead, I'd insist he kiss my lips, he'd say something along the lines of 'I love you and I'll see you tonight. Piss off Edward for me.' and he'd go. I'd go back to bed._

 _And on that day, nothing felt wrong, or out of place. I didn't feel and foreboding or warning, no sign from above that this would be the last time I ever saw the man I loved the way I loved him again. It was just the same as every morning, the hundreds of them I'd spent with him. As I lay in bed, I distinctly remember that my last thought, before falling back asleep, was wondering what it was Charlie would make us for dinner._

…

I get to spend time with Rose again a week later. She has negotiated, on my behalf, that I will spend two days and one night a week at our house. While yes, I would have liked to have been consulted on this, I will take what I can get, especially when it comes to Rose.

We've been sitting in the living room for most of the afternoon, sometimes talking, sometimes not, enjoying each others company. I take note of the cardigan she is wearing, it's orange. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a memory pulls itself free. Sitting across from her at a desk, we're talking, talking, talking. I give her my number, was that flirting? I can't recall. I don't mention it to her, not yet.

"The memory specialist told me that I might never remember the years leading up to the accident."

"Oh?"

"Yes. There will always be a huge blank spot in my memory."

"I will be your memory." She assures me, tilting her head onto my shoulder.

"What was our wedding like?"

"Beautiful." She replied. "For so long I thought it wasn't going to work out. Our hall for the reception canceled, my dress didn't fit, your mother refused to come, Matthew's leg started playing up, it all seemed to be tuning to shit." She paused, "But everything came together. You decided that your mother could accept me or leave, Blake let us use his house, Jean fixed my dress, Matthew still managed to make it..." She smiled, "And for the one time in history, no one in Ballarat was murdered."Pause, "Until the reception, when everyone had to go and solve a crime where a young gardener was killed." She shook her head. "It was...Really something." She said, after several moments.

"Of course, you made it back in time for your honeymoon, to Melbourne."

"We went to Melbourne for our honeymoon?"

"Well it seemed more romantic in my head." She admitted. "But it was still fun. I think you were always a city boy. A small town like this did your head in sometimes." I wonder makes someone a city person but I decide not to question it too much quite yet. I'll leave it be for now. I put an arm around her shoulders, holding her close to me. Like I could absorb her into me. Become something new.

Later, we are lying in bed and I am watching her sleep. She seems so young and worry free. It occurs to me, for not the first time, that I am nearly ten years older then her. She faces me, in sleep, as if she is pleased to be there, tucked up against my chest. I was stroking one of my hands along her back, revelling in the intimacy of it.

Memories of nights like this flood back like water bursting free from a dam. This is Rose and she is my fianceé. I need to convince her to let me marry her. I watch the moonlight reflect off her nightdress. That's not right. We're already married. But I can remember.

…

 _It's strange, don't you think, how dismissive we've become of death?_

 _We hear about it all the time. In the news. On the radio. In the paper. And yet, how often do we think of the people who have been lost, and the family who have lost someone? The answer you're looking for is not often._

 _The afternoon before the day where Charlie had his accident, I was caught in traffic because there was an accident on the street that I took home. I barely thought about the people who were killed there, after all why would I? People died all the time._

 _They were murdered, they had heart attacked, they ate uncooked meat, they fell off fences, they had poor aim with a shot gun. I once edited a story where a man choked to death on a peanut All these deaths happen everyday and I, like most people, had never given more then a second's thought to any of them, perhaps with the exception of when I edited the story of the peanut-choking-man._

 _Here I was, sitting on this street, wondering why of all the streets people could crash on, why this one? Why this night, when I wanted to go home and have my shoulders rubbed by my husband, what gave theses people the right to die in a way that inconvenienced me?_

 _There are a million and one ways that someone you love can die._

 _Cancer, a well aimed punch in a bar fight, an undiagnosed allergy or perhaps inexperience with electricity. All of those things promised to take someone you love away from you, with all these ways to die, something as mundane as a car accident barely seems to register after all: When was the last time you felt sympathy for a victim rather then annoyance at having to take another way to work?_

 _I heard about Charlie's accident on the radio. I was at work with Edward Tyneman when they did the traffic report on the ABC. I didn't think anything of it, in fact, I remember thinking about if it would be cleared up by the time he knocked off. No one hears about an accident on the radio and thinks 'oh! Shit! That was my husband!'_

 _It was as much a shock to me as everyone else when Jean called me at work to say Charlie and Blake had been in an accident. Blake had been driving, and they'd been hit from the side by another car. Blake was driving, he was fine. Charlie was in surgery. I thought, then and there, that I would never ever forgive him for this, for hurting Charlie, even if the rational part of my brain knew that he didn't do anything, he was a good and careful driver. Turns out I needn't have worried. He's never going to forgive himself._

…

"I can remember things."

"What things?" Blake sounded like an excited child.

"I can remember asking Rose to marry me."

"Well that's excellent." Patient voice. I hate him. Well: I don't really. I just hate that voice. Like I'm a child.

Do you know that moment just after you start falling, that split second that you realise something is wrong, and that you might now come out of this okay? That's what splits across his face. Maybe he was right to be scared of me.

"I would like to move back in with Rose." Pause. "No. I am going to move in with Rose, when she'll have me."

"Charlie I really think you should think this through a little more time here with me." I don't want to.

"No." No is a word that is powerful and meaningful and definite. It is not a word I have used much lately. Not since I got out of hospital and physical therapy was no longer on the daily.

"Charlie."

"No." Louder this time. "It's my life. I know that you're guilty, I know you're punishing yourself but there is no need to punish everyone else." I said, folding my arms over my chest now, stomach filling with newly produced butterflies, tumbling over one another like a storm. He looks offended. "I know what happened!"

"Did Rose tell you?"

"Don't bring her into this." I reply, "I got the details from Lawson."  
"I told him-"  
"He knows what you told him!" I exclaimed, "But he also knows I have a right to my own history!" It has been weeks since I last saw Lawson. He is out of town. Perhaps that is good, he would have tried to talk me out of this.

"I will not be spoken too in my own house, like this!" He said, getting to his feet, a bit drunk and ready to fight me. I know he would never actually fight me, but he was thinking of it.

"No! You want to keep an eye on me because you're blaming yourself. Can't you see what you're doing?" I demanded, putting both my hands flat on the table now to hide the shaking. "You are ruining your relationship with Jean. With your practice. Your job." I reel back for the final kick, the fatal sentence, that one moment when he would finally, I hoped, be exposed to what he was scared of most. I stand up to face him. I have been seeing this conversation in my head for weeks. Building it, every word, every thing I would say to him to convince him that I was ready and now I'm realising I'm not ready. I'm so in over my head that I can't get to the surface again but it feels good. I repeat over in my head 'I'd rather live terrified then die bored' and I speak. "With me." For a second, nothing happens. We both stand there, the finality of it both grounding and absolving. Then his knees give out

I ran around to the other side of the table, pulling him up into my arms and I realised he was crying. Great heaving sobs that originate somewhere in your gut and make their way to your mouth by force alone. I don't know what to do. I can't know what to do because I don't ever remember being in a situation like this before. When would I have had cause to? But he's here and so am I and I realize there's no use asking for Mrs Blake now. All I can do is hold him and try to figure out what I should do to help. But then it hits me: I can't do anything. I can only hold him and try my best to comfort him.

It takes me a few seconds, but when I listened in it comes to my attention that he's speaking, the same words, over and over and over again, like watching your socks go around in the washing machine.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." And it takes me so long to even know what he's sorry for. It's everything. The accident. The over protection. His practice. His job. His relationship with Jean, all of it thrown into a bowl and mixed together like a disgusting cake made of tar and molasses.

It slaps me over the face. He blames himself. A second, much harder slap. I blame him too.

Its all I can do, to hold him, and cry with him.

…

So we compromised.

I live with Rose again, which is good. I appreciate it. It was like falling in love with her all over again. I asked her, once, if she would have fallen in love with me the way I a now. She said probably not but then she was different too and I might not have fallen in love with her either. I told her fair enough.

I still can't remember a lot of things that happened before the accident. We've figured it out to be about two and a half years worth of memory. But it could be worse, I think.

Blake still comes around every day to check on me, but that's alright as well. I miss him sometimes. He told me the reason that he didn't tell me about Rose was because he wanted to protect me and he was scared that she would take me from him. He was right.

We've started going over to see Matthew every second night. He appreciates the thought, I think. Tells me lots of war stories. I probably know more about his war service then my own life in some respects.

Mrs Blake and I have started cooking together once a week for the whole family. Her. Me. Blake. Rose. Matthew. Frank. All of them. It's a lot of fun.

This is the last page in this notepad. I will probably go out with Rose and buy another one later today but until then, I'd just like to say RIP to the Charlie Davis I was, but welcome to the one that I am.


End file.
